A Hot Spring
by filistinist
Summary: Arthur is enjoying the spring and opera in Paris, when Eames shows up, at a bad time, as usual. (Translation of "Жаркая весна" by Vinmar, on AO3, crossposted to AO3).


Arthur loved Paris in general, and the Opéra Garnier in particular. Like any architecture enthusiast, he called this phenomenon by its creator's name, and was in awe of it. He liked the Palais itself, and liked its history even more. Sometimes, when he was building complex dreams, in his fantasies, he would complete its unfinished mirror rotunda and smoking gallery.

Paris was also the place of residence of a certain Mademoiselle Charlotte Guisier, a petite brunette of about thirty-three, spoiled, fashionable, and delicate, like a porcelain ballerina on a commode. A true Frenchwoman, a true Parisienne. And she adored listening to the opera just as much as Arthur did.

Therefore, every time Arthur settled in for a stay in Paris, he surrendered himself ecstatically to two romances at the same time: with a woman and with an opera house. And also with Puccini, Verdi, Rossini, Handel, Mozart, Cavalli, Wagner, and Bizet. It was like a glorious orgy. Arthur must have been one of the few people in the whole world who had a list on their wall of every major opera of every nation and time period. He would cross off the ones he'd already heard, underline the ones he thought it was critical to listen to, and next to the items on the 'heard' list he would make a note of whose performance he enjoyed the most. Even Charlotte scrunched up her little nose and snorted when she saw this height of musical pedantry.

That year, spring in Paris was a success: chestnut trees and tulips were in bloom, gardens radiated sweet fragrances, and the Grand Opera was putting on rare productions, such as Handel's _Serses_ , which no one in France had staged for a very long time. Arthur was elated. Arthur was brimming with fondness for the opera, and—residually—for Charlotte.

As for dreamsharing, Arthur's personal policy in that sphere of his life was currently best characterized by the vernacular expression "don't give a flying fuck."

The evening started out marvelously. Charlotte was radiant in all pink, and was chirping something at him affectionately. She'd already fortified herself with a substantial amount of champagne, and was starting to squint adorably with her left eye.

Arthur was approaching the pinnacle of rapture—the aria "Ombra mai fu" was about to start any moment—when suddenly someone plopped down into the seat next to him, on his right. Someone large, noisy, and, as Arthur could feel without even looking, utterly shameless. He smelled like pistachios and, very faintly, of sweet cologne and strong cigars.

And even before Arthur could form a single coherent thought, he recognized him—recognized this epitome of self-satisfaction.

For a few moments, he smiled fixedly at Charlotte and studied her delicate pink ear.

"Would it be possible," he caught himself thinking helplessly, "would it be possible to leave unnoticed?"

He was still placing some frail hope in a miracle, the dim light, and Xerxes's spectacular arias, which were written once upon a time for the legendary castrato Caffarelli.

And that's when this 'someone' pressed his knee against Arthur's, and he shuddered—he could feel the heat of that body even through the double layer of fabric. But then, both their pants turned out to be much too thin, which really wasn't surprising—they were summer pants, and Eames... Eames had always been overheated, relentlessly sultry, just like his beloved Mombasa.

And also dangerous, thought Arthur.

He turned his head slowly and stared at the forger. He wouldn't have been surprised to see him cracking sunflower seeds and spitting the shells on the heads of the people below, right into the purple feathers in an elderly lady's coiffure. But Eames wasn't spitting anything, he was just fidgeting in his chair and rummaging in the pockets of his linen suit.

"Oh! Artie! It's you! I hadn't even noticed."

"Eames. Move your leg."

"Huh? Oh, sorry, sorry. As I said, I didn't see you."

But Eames didn't withdraw his knee, and even seemed to press in tighter. Well, actually, Arthur wasn't too sure. The countertenor might have been singing something like a declaration of love to a tree, and Charlotte was exclaiming something excitedly, but Arthur, to be honest, could no longer bring himself to give a fuck. It was always like this anytime Eames appeared in his field of vision. Arthur's world narrowed and collapsed into a single point, and he lost all awareness of anything else.

"Eames!"

"Artie, stop hissing and blowing out your hood. What's the matter? Why are you so uptight, darling?"

And with those words he added his hand to Arthur's knee.

The fidgeting began to draw Charlotte's interest. Eames immediately butted in to introduce himself.

"I'm the cousin of our charming little grouch." He put on a shit-eating grin, and somehow managed to kiss Charlotte's hand while leaning over the obstacle presented by Arthur's body. "You know, when we were kids, at our grandma's, we always used to fight, and now whenever we meet we start to mess with each other, out of habit. But that has no bearing on our truly tender feelings for each other. I love him very much, touchy as he is," Eames confided familiarly, sweeping Arthur into a bear hug and smooching the side of his head. "And speaking of, I was at granny's recently, I even wrote you from there, Artie! Did you get my letters? No? That's too bad!"

Charlotte was peering at them suspiciously, even while she looked like she might start hiccuping with giggles. Eames, noticing this, redoubled his hugging efforts. Arthur barely escaped his clutches, breathless and pink as a radish.

"Is _granny_ still in the US?" Arthur inquired bitingly. "Not getting involved in questionable schemes with Japanese millionaires?"

"Your grandmother lives in the Unites States?" Charlotte was surprised.

"Oh yes, it's a complicated story—her long, difficult, yet romantic path in life." Eames nodded importantly. "And in general, we have a big and restless family, didn't Arthur tell you? The worst part is, we sometimes do business with our relatives. An extremely bad habit!"

"You have a family-run design bureau?"

Eames snorted inelegantly.

"Design... that might be a bit too limited. I think Arthur may have understated the scope of our family business. Architecture. Innovative, you know, highly innovative. Delicate hand-crafted work. Complex considerations... a rich imagination. To be honest, we did only trust Arthur with the design part... well, and overall coordination sometimes. He's anal-retentive, awfully precise, but lacks in imagination a bit. Well," he winked at her, "you know what I'm talking about, right?"

Eames laughed, and Charlotte laughed along knowingly. Arthur sunk his nails into Eames's wrist. His hands were shaking.

"But sometimes... sometimes..." Eames continued, "you can arouse his imagination. You just have to stimulate him the right way. And then he might surprise you. Believe you me, there are delightful hidden depths in this boring lad!"

"Eames, don't you think we came here to listen to the opera, and not to indulge in... family reminiscences? Leave my girlfriend alone!"

"Are you jealous, darling?"

"Take your hands off!"

"I'm not touching her, babe!"

"Off of me, Eames! You're touching me!"

"Oh! But that's normal! I always do that, remember? Charlotte, he's funny, isn't he?"

"You're funny too!" Charlotte retorted flirtatiously, and Arthur rolled his eyes. He had lost all hope of ever breaking out of this hell.

"Who, me? Sure I am." Eames smiled back no less flirtatiously. In the course of that conversation, he managed to shift his paw from Arthur's knee to his thigh.

A struggle would have been too indecent, so Arthur suffered in silence. He was barely even registering what was happening onstage. He was hot, his mouth had gone dry, there were spots floating in front of his eyes, and a sweet, tensile ache was spooling out low in his stomach.

When Eames's palm slid between his legs, he started and clenched his knees together, and then covered these lewd goings-on with the program sheet. Eames's hand was no longer moving, it just lay there in the place where it definitely had no business being, but that was more than enough for Arthur. However, Arthur knew Eames well enough to expect a sequel. It was unnerving in the worst way.

They listened to another aria, and then Eames started fidgeting again and making rustling noises.

"Nuts?" he casually offered Charlotte the packet of pistachios, and gently thumbed at Arthur's hard-on under the program.

"You shit..." hissed the point man. "Leave us alone!"

Eames tightened his fingers, and Arthur choked on air, anger, and arousal.

 _Serses_ was hopelessly ruined.

"Oh, quit pouting," said Eames, leaning towards him, his eyes glittering. "Look how much your lady likes us, me and the nuts. I have to admit, this get-together is a bit all over the place, but that doesn't make it any less nice..."

And the forger squeezed Arthur a little bit tighter, which made a spasm twist through him. Arthur realized his 'cousin' was so happy to see him that he was capable of all sorts of ill-considered fondling.

He cursed the hour when he decided to attend Handel's most original opera.

During the intermission, they drank coffee and champagne, ate amazing meringues, and made small-talk. Charlotte kept pursing her lips into a rosebud shape, touching Eames's sleeve, arching her back in its floating salmon-colored gauze, drumming her glossy nails on the table, and fluttering her painted eyelashes. Eames was delighted and didn't even give Arthur a single glance.

Arthur was looking around at the diamond-studded ears, pearl-encrusted necks, reams of crepe and silk. The air seemed over-saturated with a strong perfume that gave Arthur the impression of a gas chamber.

Under Eames's linen suit, he glimpsed a shirt of the same exact color as Charlotte's dress. The shades matched each other to the point of improbability.

Afterwards, they strolled through the foyer to see the Paul Baudry ceiling—Eames was playing at being a slightly crude foreigner, Charlotte was excitedly showing and telling him things.

"The main decorative element..." Arthur caught snatches of her melodious, tipsy, throaty voice. "The main element here is the lyre. See, Eames, it's everywhere, on the heating vent grilles... on the door handles... And here is the bust of Charles Garnier himself, sculpted by Carpeaux. Have you really never been to the Grand Opera?"

Eames lied very earnestly that no, never, and smiled at her naive enthusiasm.

Arthur was in torment from everything he saw, heard, and touched.

Eames had his arm around Charlotte's waist. Strands of wavy hair had escaped from her updo and framed her face, making her look seven years younger. She looked girlish and even more fragile.

Eames was so charming that Charlotte volunteered to show him the Opera Library-Museum, and the three of them trudged off to the Emperor's Rotunda. Or rather, Arthur was trudging, whereas Guisier fluttered like a butterfly, and Eames flowed after her like the Biblical tempter-serpent.

"Artie, have you had a chance to appreciate the stone inlay from the year 1870?" he whispered from time to time, his breath hot against Arthur's ear, making the tiny hairs on the back of his arms and neck stand on end. "Didn't Charlotte show it to you? A very well-read young lady... Has she been showing you anything, at all? Have you at least seen her knickers?"

They decided to have dinner near the Bastille. And now Arthur was scowling—he found this area too noisy. But the others were thrilled. They picked a Cuban place, which had become popular here lately. Arthur thought there was something grimy about it, although he couldn't have explained precisely what—it all looked perfectly decent, even more than. But of course, it was more of a nightclub than the kind of restaurants he was used to in Le Marais. There was a dance floor, and a motley, but invariably fun, crowd. And before the hour was through, Eames and Charlotte were making fireworks on the dance floor.

Arthur, in the meantime, was opening the buttons on his shirt collar with shaking fingers. He reminded himself of a character in a Balzac or Flaubert novel, tearing at the frills of his jabot in a paroxysm of jealousy. He needed to cool down.

The lighting in the bathroom gave it a golden, twilit atmosphere, and the mirrors made his reflection look more attractive, even passionate. His eyes seemed to be glittering, his lips slightly swollen, his gaze languid.

Eames appeared in the reflection so suddenly, and at his side so silently, that Arthur flinched back with a quiet yelp. And ended up right in his outstretched arms.

"Did you know that I'm staying with you tonight?" murmured the forger. "Your lady has been so gracious..."

"Eames, I'm going to hit you. Seriously."

"Go ahead... if it makes you feel better... why are you so nervous, Artie? Are you jealous? Of Charlotte?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Well, it can't be of me over Charlotte... nonsense... Either way, it's nonsense! You know what I need, and it's definitely not your French chatterbox..."

"How many times do I have to tell you no, Eames?!"

"You shouldn't tell me no at all," Eames purred, nipping at Arthur's neck. "Don't say no. Spare everyone's nerves."

"I can't!"

"And why not?"

"Not with you!"

"Definitely with me... Don't lie. I know that you're not indifferent to me... I know it, Artie..."

"Not now, Eames!"

"Why not? Charlotte is being danced around by some muscle-bound macho, she's drunk, we're the least of her worries..."

"Not here! At least not here..."

Arthur was weakening rapidly, his knees were giving out, and he would have sunk down to the floor if Eames hadn't been holding him up.

Eames, in the meantime, was taking advantage of the situation, his hands roaming over his back and chest, his tongue over his neck and chin. Arthur felt like he was coming with every hot, wet touch of that tongue. An unbearable, sweet chill was creeping over his body.

"Why are you shaking so much, darling? Are you coming down with something?" asked Eames solicitously.

"Shut up..."

"But you like my chatter..."

"Really? Who... ever... told you that?"

"And you like this, _yeaah_? Yeah, Arthur? What about this? _Fuuuck_ , Artie, I'm starting to think you and your Guisier live like brother and sister! You're blushing and shaking, as if I dragged you into an orgy with three giant black transvestites."

"Eames! I'm going to throw up..."

"Just a little bit more, Artie... you feel it, don't you... just a little, little bit... Mmm? Just a tiny bit? Yeah?"

Arthur hated him with his whole body and soul.

But it was hard to hate in that pose—leaning over a steel sink with an old-fashioned bronze patina, propping himself up on both arms. His hands kept trying to slip off anyway, as if they were covered in soap, and the sink swayed in front of his eyes.

It was hard to hate with his shirt unbuttoned and yanked roughly down to his elbows, while Eames's lips tormented his neck and his stubble scraped painfully over his shoulder blades, while his hand was working in Arthur's open fly, moving faster and faster, and Eames himself rubbed against him from behind like a rutting animal, with his whole body, and especially with his hips against his backside.

Arthur really was feeling queasy, his head was spinning, he was chilled and feverishly hot in turns, and the whole thing was starting to resemble a fit of delirium instead of bathroom sex in a club.

Arthur was whimpering, begging, and writhing under those fingers and mouth, torn between thrusting his hips forward into that hand and pushing his neck and spine into those greedy, awful lips behind him. He was pressing back with all his strength against Eames's chest, but sometimes he still ended up dropping forward against the sink, into the mirror, and he was afraid to lift his eyes and see his steamed-up reflection.

Later, he will chalk it all up to illness, because he really was running a fever, and how did he even manage to catch a cold? It's been such a hot, hot, hot, sweet spring...

He lost track of the moment when his orgasm wrenched through him, and only snapped out of it when he saw Eames rinsing his hands, without ever letting him out of his snaky grip... Looking him over through the gilt in the mirror... Wiping him clean with a paper towel and pulling his shirt back on, as if Arthur was mentally deficient.

Eames even buttoned him up, then kissed his throat.

Arthur felt as if he was falling in slow motion.

It was a fever. It was a sickness.

"Now I really do hate you..." He whispered weakly through parched lips.

Eames gave him an appraising once-over, took hold of his elbow decisively, and dragged him out of the bathroom.

"Something is actually wrong with you, Artie. Let's get you home..."

Charlotte turned up on their way to the exit, told Eames the address, and then immediately zoned out. Eames had to shove two virtually unresponsive bodies into a taxi, pay their fare, and then herd both Arthur and Guisier up the stairs. Arthur observed all this as if it was happening to someone else, and was even laughing, somewhere deep inside. It was absurd, wasn't it? Hilarious.

At Arthur's flat, Eames spent a long time settling Charlotte into the small blue bedroom, bringing her hot water and warm blankets—despite the hot spring, the flat was cold, like most apartments in Paris. Eames was of the opinion that the place was the ninth circle of hell, in all its icy glory.

He then tried to settle Arthur into the other bedroom, and to make himself comfortable on the couch—the sofa groaned, announcing its antiquity and costliness. Arthur had inherited the furniture, and the flat it came in, from his aunt.

"How did you manage to come down with something, Artie? Are you feeling sick?"

Arthur kept twisting away from the hand that tried to feel his forehead, adjust his blanket, pet his hair. He just wanted it all to stop.

"It's nerves..." he said quietly. "I've had this before... in school. It's not a cold, it'll be over quickly."

The first spring rain started to drizzle outside the window.

For a long time, Eames just looked at him, almost with pity. Then he threw back the blanket and crawled in next to Arthur. He pulled him close to his chest, kissed him, put his arms around him, and Arthur pressed closer despite himself, buried his face in his rucked-up shirt, relaxed, hugged him back. He might have even whispered something, lips against his naked chest, and that was dangerous, reckless, but Arthur hoped that Eames would understand, would be sympathetic, and they'd simply go to sleep, and later, in the morning, everything would be different, and tonight would seem like a dream, and he and Eames would banter for a bit, and then he would leave. Because he obviously hadn't come here to listen to the opera, or for Arthur. He came to work, this Arthur understood immediately and with perfect clarity.

And that's why he could relax, and fall asleep together with Eames, basking in the impossibility of that moment.

But of course, they didn't go to sleep.

The bed was creaking horribly, in such a flagrantly rhythmic way that Arthur thought everyone in the building must know that Eames was fucking him. He'd never heard a more vulgar sound in his entire life, and he felt like he was in a whorehouse. Not a client in a whorehouse—a whore.

He was surprised by his own almost non-stop moaning—the moans seemed to burst out of his throat of their own volition, and he was hearing them as if from the side, but he wasn't quite able to abstract himself completely. He would have been happy to perceive everything from a distance, as they say sometimes happens during a rape. But no, Arthur had never felt everything more sharply than he did now. And it was fucking amazing. It was excruciating, humiliating, painful, sweet, strange, and so embarrassing that it made him shudder, made his cheeks burn...

His legs were wrapped around Eames's waist, shamelessly lifted up and spread open, and over him and inside him moved, like some kind of fantastic mechanism, a hot sweaty body, the body of a man, a man whom Arthur had always tried to shut out, whom he could never allow to get the upper hand in the smallest things.

Arthur felt like a schoolgirl, who, through some strange and cruel circumstances, was losing her virginity to her least favorite teacher.

Eames was very thorough—he fucked him unhurriedly, with relish, drawing it out, as if he was afraid this would be the first and last time. He kept changing the speed, angle, rhythm. He dropped filthy curses, whispered that Arthur was a gorgeous little bitch.

Arthur's head was tossing on the pillow, he was sweating buckets. The ceiling above him swayed, the lamp, which was still on, was fluttering back and forth, the bed was threatening to fall apart, and this creaking, this jittering—it all made Arthur teeth-grindingly hard.

"Do you like that?" Eames kept asking. "Do you like it, mmm? C'mon, Artie, tell me... Tell the truth..."

And he bore down on him even more, pressing him into the damp sheets, sliding in even deeper, more and more smoothly, as if gliding on butter.

Arthur twisted around, took his fingers into his mouth, and started to suck on them greedily. The reaction he got was unexpected: Eames almost screamed, collapsed onto him completely, and started to move in rough, long, powerful strokes. Pounding into him as hard as he could.

Back in Charlotte's bedroom, there was clattering, a crash, sounds of movement.

"Eames..." Arthur tried to say, but his voice was slurring, wasn't obeying him, "Eames..."

Eames was growling, teeth clenched, no longer hearing or seeing anything, and Arthur himself was thrashing under him, trying to get him in even deeper. His ass seemed to have a life of its own. He was starting to get ruthlessly sore, but that was turning him on even more.

From the side it must have looked as if Arthur was resisting, struggling, trying to push him away, and the shouts he was now making at every thrust sounded almost surprised, the way people sometimes yelp when they get a sudden shot in the chest. He lost all sense of direction, and it felt like Eames was fucking him somewhere on the wall, between the window and the empty couch, on some vertical surface. A hot, slippery piston was hammering into him, and tiny colored circles exploded in front of this eyes, as if someone was playing a strange game of paintball with him.

Charlotte appeared in the doorway—in a lilac-colored silk bed gown, like a heroine in that same Flaubert novel.

"I hope there won't be any arsenic," Arthur thought briefly, and then fell over the edge right after Eames, who was growling, pulsing inside him, melting all over him, scorching hot.

Silence finally enveloped the room. Only then did Arthur really get how loudly they'd been screaming, moaning, and grinding.

"Sorry, Charlotte, darling," said Eames hoarsely, somewhere in the direction of Arthur's stomach. "Nothing personal. It's just that I've always wanted him for myself."


End file.
